


Bullet Holes

by objectlesson



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, McClane is fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes McClane thinks he's lost everything. Then he remembers that he hasn't, and Matt is the reason why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullet Holes

**Author's Note:**

> I am so in love with Justin Long. I don't know why it took me so long to write fic about him in this movie; it's a pretty obvious pairing to run with. This is all dirty, dirty porn. Anyway, this never happened, I don't own them.

Sometimes it feels like McClane has lost everything. When he wakes up with the old bullet holes itching, his bad back aching, his six-am coffee grey and gritty in the bottom of a cracked mug he pulls off the empty shelf inside an empty house. He thinks about new bullet holes on these days, bullet holes to come. 

He drags his hand across a stubbled face in grey-black darkness, eyes stuck together with sleep, bones feeling brittle in all the places they’ve already been broken, and he wonders why the fuck he’s still doing this. It’s not like anyone appointed him savior of the universe. It’s not like he’s young anymore. He’s paid off or his dues or his karma or whatever you want to call if if you believe in that kind of crap. He should be allowed to die. Put the revolver in his mouth, nice and easy, and make that final bullet hole. Lay down the badge. 

These are the mornings he’s bitter. Old and tired and sick to death of his job. It’s the mornings when he feels like he’s lost everything. These mornings, he has to remind himself that he hasn’t. 

It’s easier now that Matt is in his bed when he wakes. McClane rolls over, slams his hand down to shut the alarm up, feels like he wants to die in those slow, disorganized moments before he remembers who he is, but then he sees Matt, rolled up in all the blankets he’s stolen over the course of the night, head thrown back and snoring because Matt couldn’t wake up at six if his life depended on it. But he’s there. Breathing, oily haired, young, alive. McClane will reach over and touch him, rough a hand up his chest over his sleeping heartbeat, kiss his own knuckles and brush them across Matt’s cheek, touch him in ways he would never touch him if they were both awake and he wasn’t in the midst of a fuckin’ mid-life existential crisis. He’ll think, _kid. You’re still here._

Then, McClane can breathe again, can steel himself up to face the day because he hasn’t lost everything. He’s alive. His daughter is alive. And that’s because of Matt Ferrel. 

So it makes sense, everything that follows. It makes sense that he puts Matt up in his apartment, that he keeps Matt in his bed. He needs the reminder. He needs the living flesh, the fast, stupid way he talks, his youth, his voice that still cracks with the proximity of adolescence. He needs him. Yeah, it’s not honorable. It’s not even preferable. It’s weird and at least nine out of ten nights he’ll stare at that dark head, that face illuminated by the blue of a computer glow, and want to smack him for coming into his life and making him whatever he is now. 

But then there’s that tenth night, when McClane stumbles in the door, every inch of his body hating being alive, and Matt will take his coat. Matt will heat up leftovers, stay blessedly quiet, stand behind McClane and dig his thumbs into his shoulders and hey, it’s not the Korean lady at the corner salon he used to get massages from, but it’s hand on his skin, lips on his ear, the words low and graceless _I’ll let you fuck me as hard as you want tonight,_ like he knows what he wants, what he needs.

“That a promise, kid?” McClane says, gruff, even though he swore he wasn’t going to say a goddamn word to that freeloading infant tonight.

“I don’t make promises,” Matt reminds him, pinching the tendon which connects his shoulder, the one that’s pulled so tight it burns. “Just suggestions.” 

“Well I suggest you hold on tight,” McClane says, unbuckling his belt, standing. “You shouldn’t suggest things you’re not planning on following through with.” He smiles, even though he doesn’t want to. Leather slides out of the loops of his slacks, and Matt watches his hands, gaze trying very hard to stay unchanged. Matt likes to do this; he likes to be snarky. He likes to be a pain in McClane’s ass.

But then he’ll smile a stupid, young, reckless smile as McClane fists two hands in his shirt front and hauls him up against the wall, crushes him under his lips, the wide barrel of his chest.A smile that says he wants and needs this as much as McClane does, thins thing neither of them can keep in their bodies. And it should be weird, having this kid writhe up against him, this clumsy twenty-something with a sexual education limited to anime porn ( _hentai_ , Matt would correct) and whatever shit McClane has taught him (which isn’t much). It should be really weird, but it isn’t. It feels right, having his body against his, hearing Matt laugh nervously and wheeze as McClane pushes him down to the kitchen floor, yanks his black jeans around his thighs. 

“Geez, _here_? We like, _eat _in here.” Matt isn’t really protesting; he’s on all fours with his ass in the air. He only complains because he thinks McClane likes it, which could be true because McClane doesn’t know what he likes anymore, not since this started happening. He feels like everything is new, a whole uncharted world of possibilities he never considered in the past because when he decided he was old, he gave up on novelty.__

__“We don’t eat on the floor,” McClane reminds him, spitting in his hand, hard already and impatient . “Anyway, my house, my rules. Spread your thighs, kid.”_ _

__Matt rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna screw up your knee, old man. We have a perfectly good bed. And a couch, that couch is actually really --fuck,” he hisses, cutting himself up and pressing his flushed face into his forearm as McClane pushes in, each inch slow and burning. “You’re gonna do it.”_ _

__“Nah, I’m _doing_ it. Difference,” he points out, gripping Matt’s hips so tight he can feel texture underneath the smoothness of skin, tendons and layers of things deep inside him. He leans down, presses a rough, wet kiss to the skin exposed by Matt’s shirt as it rides up. “Fuck, you feel good.” _ _

__And Matt could stop him here. He could push him off, call him out on being self-destructive, angry, possessive, insane. He could go find someone his own age, a pretty girl or at least one of his hacker friends, another kid wasting his brilliance on gaming. Another living creature with a beating heart and no scars. He’s young, after all. He’s smart. He’s not bad looking. McClane needs him, but he shouldn’t need McClane. There’s no reason for him to be here, teaching a old dog new tricks. Every time, McClane half expects it to end right here, for Matt to finally realize how much shit he puts up with when he tolerates McClane pretending he’s putting up with shit, and leave. But, every time, that isn’t what happens._ _

__“John,” Matt’s voice scrapes, sounding different, changed, broken. His pale back crooks, and he tilts his hips deeper into McClane’s thrusts. “You can fuck me hard. As hard as you need.” He bites into his elbow, hair dark, sweat-damp chaos. McClane’s stomach drops, and he knows with certainty in these moments why he suffers through other nine nights. “Please,” Matt says, reaching around and feeling the slick, spit-wet juncture where they’re joined. _Shit_ , McClane thinks. _What the hell am I doing. How’d I get so lucky._. Crazy things, things he doesn’t think when he’s sober, soft-cocked, or awake. He pulls out hard, leaving Matt empty and gaping and red, then slams back in hard, grunting unheard, because he’s a quiet, solid, stoic fuck compared to all the noise Matt makes. _ _

__Matt is mortifyingly loud, he cries out with every thrust and backs his hips up and babbles words, actual _words_ McClane tries not to hear but sometimes does and remembers at inopportune times, times when he doesn’t want to smile and shake his head. He calls McClane by his first name, his last name. He calls him detective. He uses every profanity McClane’s ever heard, and some he has only been recently taught. He screams wordlessly. The neighbors have definitely called at four in the morning wondering if everyone is okay. _ _

__He never shuts up, not when there’s a dick in his ass, not ever. Outwardly, this is another thing McClane curses about him, along with his electric-bill murdering computer console and his all-nighters that fuck with McClane’s sleeping schedule. But secretly, McClane fucking loves it. He loves hearing every incarnation of his name, and he loves them all coming from Matt’s lips._ _

__McClane can see Matt’s ribs through his teeshirt, and he would never admit it to anyone, lest of all Matt, but the kid has a fine ass. Actually, the kid is straight up fine, even when he won’t shut up. He doesn’t have to pretend that Matt Ferrel is some cute little number with C cups and nylons, he doesn’t have to pretend anything. He can just ride on home, close his eyes and hold tight and fuck him like it’s the last fuck of a dying man, hot and fast and painful when he comes. “Christ,” he hisses as he spasms, sweat dripping off his chin and onto the lowermost curve of Matt’s spine. “Jesus fucking _christ_.”_ _

__He’s still inside him, shrinking and dripping as he jacks Matt off, slow and strong. “You gonna come for me, kid? Gonna come all over my kitchen floor?” And, predictably, Matt shouts as he spills over McClane’s hand onto dirty linoleum, ass clenching up along his softening dick so hard it makes him wince. He pulls out, wipes his sticky hand on Matt’s glowing white ass cheek. “You’re an unbelievable brat. I think you woke up the whole fucking neighborhood,” he says gently, hauling Matt up to his feet._ _

__“It’s your fault. It’s not like I can _help_ myself or anything,” he wheezes hoarsely, coughing. “Ouch. I think my intestines are falling out.” He tries to make a face, but he’s grinning too much to make it convincing. _ _

__“Shut up,” McClane says, tucking himself into his pants. He grabs Matt by the collar before he can run off to the shower, and kisses him hard, tasting every inch of his mouth until Matt pulls away breathless. Matt stares at him, stricken, black eyes half-lidded and McClane would say in love if he didn’t know any better._ _

__“Hey,” he adds, gruffly. “Thanks, kid.”_ _

__Matt’s shoulder’s slump, and he looks very pleased with himself, the intensity of his eyes softening just a little bit, like he doesn’t have to hold on so hard. “Gotta pay the rent.” He reaches out and thumbs along the scar on McClane’s shoulder, a bullet hole under the fabric of his white teeshirt. McClane grabs his wrist and squeezes hard, too hard, maybe, but he wants his hand to stay there a second, he wants to be reminded of how much he still has left to lose. Then he lets go, shoves Matt’s shoulder gently. “Get out of here” he says, and smiles._ _


End file.
